Words Unspoken
by TheBlueWanderer
Summary: ...remain unheard. A series of drabbles concerning the sons of Feanor in Middle-Earth.
1. Introspection

The last rays of the setting sun illuminate his weary face as he stands upon the edge of the sea. Hands that once caressed the strings of golden harps now lie still, scarred by an ancient Oath. Eyes that once looked proudly upon the mountains and fields of Beleriand now gaze with resignation and acceptance towards the West. _This is their will_, he reminds himself morning and night, fearful of uttering yet another blasphemy against the Powers That Be. He stands strong as a rock against the temptation of the waves. They whip his feet, surrounding, embracing, enticing him. _Go on_, they say, _build a boat for yourself. We will carry you across the Sundering Sea on our backs, and you shall be reunited with those whom you love. Go on..._

He smiles bitterly at them. What do they know of the Oath that took the lives of so many? What do they know of his despair when his brother cast himself into that fiery chasm? What do they know of the endless years, nay, centuries he spent wandering the shores of Middle-Earth, reduced to nothing more than a spectre, a wraith? He has nothing left save introspection. As another grey night closes in, he turns his countenance towards the sky filled with the light of Elbereth.

_Forgive me._


	2. Red

He looks down into the deep rent in the earth, made by some ancient, unnamed force. The fiery liquid seems to climb up the walls of the chasm, reaching out for him. For him, or for the shining jewel that scorches his remaining hand. He emits a hollow laugh. _So Arda itself lusts for the Silmaril. _

The hot wind whips his long hair violently; for a moment he sees only red. In that colour resides the memory of his mother and his father, his brothers and his cousins. In that colour resides the memory of Alqualonde, of Doriath, of the Havens of Sirion. In that colour resides blood, betrayal and death. In a momentary fit, he seizes his knife and tries to hack off the offending locks. Failing miserably, he gazes back into the abyss, closing his eyes when he realizes that it too is red. A smile graces his lips for the first time in years. He is ready.


	3. Dispossessed

"Pityo! Why have you slackened your pace? The Dwarves of Belegost cannot hold the Enemy's forces off for long. We must reach Amon Ereb before nightfall."

Amrod grunts in response, cursing his injured foot. He winces as a particularly nasty rock blocks his path, causing him to trip and Caranthir to snort in a most undignified manner. _How, in the name of Glaurung, can he laugh at such a time?_ He keeps his eyes to the forest floor, willing himself to ignore the irritating whispers of Celegorm and Curufin. After a tree branch slaps him in the eye and incites another snicker from his older brother, he takes a wiser course and looks up. Five disheveled and bloody sons of Feanor march steadily in front of him. Behind him follow the remnant of the bedraggled Noldorin forces that fought under the Union of Maedhros. He chuckles bitterly. _Dispossessed indeed._


	4. Fire

Through the raging flames, he sees the vague shadow of his father raising his sword. Other ghostly creatures gather around him, mimicking his actions. Even the blinding smoke cannot keep out the deadly gleam of seven blades stained with blood. The acrid fumes sting his nostrils and he closes his eyes against the thick haze. _Strange how the mind clears at times such as these_, he wonders. He knows he is about to die. He knows that his father is the one who set fire to the ship he had taken refuge in. He knows that his brother, his dear brother, will never forgive the Spirit of Fire for what he did. Nor will that fiery soul forgive himself. Amras knows all this, but he does not despair. He only repents for those who could not repent for themselves.


	5. Harp

Maglor smiles slightly as his fingers glide over the ornately decorated harp strings. Music gushes forth as the moon begins to rise. He waits, and when Ithil's radiance brightens the previously dark sky, he sings. He sings of Tirion upon Túna; of its flowers dancing with the gentle breeze of Valinor, and the fair maidens that run in the fields of Nessa celebrating the arrival of Spring. He sings of joy, of love, of hope, and the scintillating stars themselves wonder at his voice...

"Brother!" Maglor flinches as a harsh voice disrupts his melody.

"Yes, Tyelkormo?"

"We ride for Doriath at dawn. You should ready your weapons. Although I see you have already done that." He glances down at his brother's hands and leaves with a cursory nod.

Only then does Maglor realize that those hands are not teasing the chords of a harp.


	6. Traitor

The clashing of swords and the anguished roars of fallen warriors resonate in his ears, as yet another Easterling in front of him tastes the sharpness of an Elven blade. Death was inevitable in any battle, but this betrayal is far more damaging. _The treachery of Men. _He keeps on fighting tirelessly, concentrating on the movement of his weapon. He has only one goal: to slay Uldor the Accursed. _Why, in Varda's name, did I let him fight under my banner?_ Through the haze, Caranthir sees him engaged in combat with Maglor. He growls ferally.

_Traitor._


	7. Lost

Snowflakes fall gently around him as he searches the woods of Neldoreth for some sign of Dior Eluchil's twin sons. The silence that reigns is supreme and he dares not utter a cry, fearing lest it break and all the monstrous memories of the previous hours gush forth. Blood trickles down from his forehead, his arm is heavy and he walks with a limp. Each step is taken with a monumental effort. Still he calls out for them in his mind, willing them to take care, to be safe.

Curufin's voice resounds in the air, ordering him to stop this madness. _Just like_ _Father, _he thinks. Caranthir's gaze lingers upon him, filled with disdain. _Yes, brother, this is what I've become. _Celegorm laughs almost maliciously, provoking him to carry on with his foolishness. _You have nothing to lose. _The moonlight begins to mingle with the sun's first rays, and still he searches. In his heart he knows that he is not searching for the slain king's sons, but for a lost part of his own soul. In his mind, a small yet malevolent voice whispers gleefully:

_Too late._


End file.
